


De Morte Prologus

by dizzy_fire



Category: Der Gevatter Tod | Godfather Death (Fairy Tale), Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, gift-giving etiquette for anthropomorphic personifications, questionable godparenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8884033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy_fire/pseuds/dizzy_fire
Summary: Death brings his godson a sensible gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [water_bby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_bby/gifts).



_Picture Death, the great ancient Reaper of the world. He is transcendent, merciless, inflexible. He is just – indeed, some would say he is the only justice. He is loneliness. He is coldness. He is duty._

_He is not a very experienced godfather._

_Picture Death again. This is not a professional visit, so he has eschewed the traditional skull-and-bones shape in favour of a more conventionally human one, but something about his dark face does not encourage one to study it too deeply. He stands straight and motionless, his black cloak folded around his shoulders. In his left hand he holds a scythe. His right hand is outstretched, open palm facing upwards. A young couple stares at it with a sort of horrified fascination. The man, in particular, looks like someone who has had a genius idea, put it into action, and is now quickly beginning to regret the results. The woman's eyes narrow; she throws her husband a meaningful look. At their feet, a plump child is placidly blowing spit bubbles. The baby, at least, looks quite content with his lot in life._

_For the first time in uncounted aeons, Death is perplexed._

***

“A... mouse,” said the boy's father. He carefully avoided his wife's gaze.

“A dead mouse,” she corrected him. Down on the ground, the boy Tymo burbled to himself and poked away at a clump of grass with a stick.

Death nodded. Both were demonstrably true: the mouse was certainly a mouse, and it was also certainly dead. A very fine specimen, if Death was to say it himself.

As if he's heard that, Tymo's father said, “Very, er...” His mouth tried to shape the word _nice_ a few times. Eventually he gave up and looked at his wife with helpless enquiry. She met his eyes with an even, if stony, countenance.

“Excuse us,” she said in Death's general direction, before dragging her husband away by the elbow.

They huddled together in the far corner of the garden, whispering heatedly. Death didn't mind – his hearing was sharp enough to pick up the last sigh of a dying gnat. For lack of anything better to do, he listened.

“I don't want to be a nag, I really don't,” the woman was saying, “but if you had picked any other godfather – anyone else at all, love, and let me just remind you that there was no lack of offers – our son wouldn't have got a rodent corpse for his first birthday present. It's a _dead_ mouse! What's he going to give him for his second one?”

Death would have frowned, if his face hadn't been set into a more or less permanent frown already. That inflection, right there. That was something he had never understood about mortals. The woman – Sarnia - objected to the mouse chiefly because it was dead, never mind that a dead mouse was much less destructive than a living one, and, barring unusual circumstances, infinitely easier to dispose of as well. As far as Death could make sense of it, it was because the dead mouse was a reminder, and some reminders were never welcome. Out of sight and out of mind, that was the way things always worked with humans – if they did their best to ignore that whole mortality business, perhaps mortality would forget they were even there.

“You know why I didn't want any of _them_ to...”

Sarnia said nothing and yet somehow made it understood that she did indeed know, and would greatly appreciate not having to hear about it all over again.

“Oh, look, I know maybe it wasn’t one of my best ideas, but... let’s give it a chance, at least? Please? I’m sure it can’t hurt our boy to have Death himself as his godfather. I mean, it’s a good thing to be on speaking terms with him, right? So maybe when Tymo’s time comes, his godfather will—will sort of look the other way?”

Eternal life. If there was ever one particular bit of mortal stupidity that Death hated above anything else, that had to be it. No human would know what to do with an unending, fixed existence. Their restless minds were built for transience, made to crave change; they would soon break under the weight of an eternity of stagnation. And yet they told themselves that this was what they truly wanted, and made up stories about clever mortals cheating Death – Death, who had been the guardian of order in the world since times immemorial, and would continue to guard it long after the last silly humans were dead and gone!

Something like that he could not leave unaddressed.

“I do not recall you saying anything about immortality when we discussed the arrangement, Mr Gregor,” he said, not loudly, but letting each syllable fall into place with the finality of a coffin lid slamming down. “I do seem to remember you talking a lot about justice. Surely you know it is generally considered its own reward?”

Gregor and his wife started guiltily. She appeared about to speak, but Death interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

“I admit I was impressed by your understanding. So few mortals are able to look past their fears and see me for what I truly am, I thought.” Death's lip curled. “I should have known better.”

“Milord, please excuse him, he didn't mean—”

“Be silent!” Death's voice rose like a howl of the wind. A flock of pigeons, which had been roosting on the roof of Gregor and Sarnia's cottage, took to the air with a frantic flapping of wings. The young couple cowered.

“Do you want to know what my godson will get from me?” Death spoke quietly again, casting a disdainful look at his hosts. “I will give him the same boon I give to everyone, no more and no less. I am justice. I do not bend and I do not barter! He must learn to remember this. The gift I brought – the gift you rejected – was knowledge. While he was young, I would have taught him about me, so that he would know to expect me, and not fear me when I came for him at last. Be that as it may – if you would rather keep him in ignorance, I will not trouble myself with that again. You, over there...”

Death looked at the boy. Little Tymo stared back. Curiously, he appeared more interested than scared. In his wide-open eyes, Death saw flecks of light. They were an odd sight – almost like a reflection of candle flames. Perhaps if he looked closer...

_The home of Death is a stormy sea of darkness and of light. Candles flicker out and flare into life, a constant, eternal push and pull. They illuminate the face of Tymo – Tymo the man, not Tymo the little boy – as he stands there, hands raised in a pose of supplication. He has his mother's dark colouring and his father's droopy eyes, but the receding hairline is all his own. He glances around the cavern, then looks Death in the eye and breaks into a grin._

The vision ended as soon as it had begun. Death, the last certainty, the master of the dark abode, blinked and raised his head, suddenly no longer sure what he'd wanted to say next. No mortal had ever set foot in the Cave of Candles. Why would Tymo be there, and why was he smiling? What did the future hold for this little human? In spite of everything... could he learn?

“...you look like a boy who would appreciate a sensible gift,” he finished awkwardly, and dropped the mouse in front of Tymo. The boy poked it with a stick and smiled the same wide smile.

***

The following year, Death decided to play things safe. He found himself regretting last year's outburst a little – after all, Gregor and Sarnia were only human, and could not be expected to understand certain things. But the boy, perhaps, with time... For now, Death was determined to make more of an effort, and thought long and hard about the kinds of gifts a human would find useful. It was no easy task, but eventually he brought Tymo a parsnip.

It was a very fine parsnip, Gregor and Sarnia agreed, and presumably Tymo did, too, because he immediately tried to cram it into his mouth. Death watched him closely, but the boy didn't seem to do anything interesting after that, and his eyes were nothing more than the eyes of a perfectly ordinary human toddler. Still, there was time.

Death resisted the temptation to check how much time, exactly. It would have been quite simple to know, without even looking at Tymo's candle, but he found that he preferred the element of uncertainty. Mortals were certainly frustrating, and somewhat stupid in almost all the ways that counted, but they had so much freedom – so much potential. What would become of this little boy? Death rather thought he would enjoy finding out.

There were other lessons to teach, in time, if the boy proved worthy. At the end of the road, the cave awaited. Who could tell what steps would lead them there? Until then, Death said goodbye to Tymo's parents, gingerly patted the boy's head and went home, feeling a kind of anticipation that, in a human being, could almost have been called happiness.


End file.
